


The Proposal

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Platonic Life Partners, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 12:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17828294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin





	The Proposal

“Do you remember me saying that I consider myself married to my work?”

“Yeah, of course. We don’t all have your fancy mind palace but my memory’s not _that_ bad.”

“Well,” Sherlock huffed, “Considering the frequency with which you’ve proved the limitations of your mnemonic–”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted firmly. “Why don’t you just ask me whatever it is you want to ask me? _Now_ , while I’m still in a good mood?”

The detective’s lower lip twitched up in the tiniest of pouts, but there was no rebuttal. Further proof that Sherlock was…perhaps not nervous, but at least uncertain of how his question ( _request? favor? oh God it was going to be absolutely **ridiculous** , wasn’t it_) would be received and what was more, was actually anxious about the result.

And how interesting ( _strange, fulfilling, making his heart swell with pride_ ) that he could interpret these little twitches and blinks already.

It truly hadn’t been all that long since the civil rebuff to John’s interested, inquiring flirting at Angelo’s, and even less time since John had somewhat despairingly admitted to himself that knowing his flatmate’s unavailability hadn’t done a damn thing toward preventing him from falling for the man. He hardly dared to call it love; it felt like more than that somehow. It felt like worship.

Helpless admiration, stunned awe, and somehow even the outrageous and infuriating things about Sherlock Holmes only served to deepen John’s adoration once the dust and tempers settled. It was as if the detective was the deity in John’s new monotheistic religion, not to be measured by any mortal standard but rather determining what was Good and Right simply by being true to his own character.

And yet he was also delightfully human. Perfect yet chock-full of faults, a genius yet utterly ignorant in so many ways. It kept John from feeling too far below and beneath him. It allowed him close enough to mock and chastise, to be confident enough to argue and question, to be comfortable enough to give honest praise but also persistently push food and sleep and medical attention at the madman when he deemed it necessary.

Close enough to learn him, to see him, to know him.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘polyamory’?”

Not close enough to read his mind, though.

“Um,” John faltered, frowning as he attempted to trace even one centimeter further along the conversational thread. ( _Case? Undercover for a case? Oh God, undercover with Sherlock **and Lestrade** for a case?_)

“You’re a medical man; I know you’ve more than just a smattering of Greek and Latin–”

“Yeah no, I know the word,” John said, holding up a hand to shut Sherlock up. “Just not the application…er, here. In this conversation. Between us.”

“I’m married to my work,” Sherlock said, solemn and staring at him over tented fingers, leaning forward in his chair as if to physically press and impress his words into John’s brain.

John nodded, suddenly equally serious. The point he could feel coming at him must be important indeed if Sherlock was wasting words on something so obvious.

“I have given myself over to it with more passion and commitment than most approach the altar. The work cannot be done without me, and I cannot do without the work. And I find…that is, I have come to realize that…”

John quirked an eyebrow, and it made Sherlock give a short sigh and press his lips together in irritation at his own waffling.

“You are necessary, John. To the work, and to me. You make my thoughts more clear, you make the conclusion of the chase more sure.”

John’s first few impulses were to nod, and say thank you, and other equally banal and wrong niceties. That wasn’t the conversation. Sherlock didn’t do normal. He married his occupation and casually mentioned polyamory to his flatmate.

Oh.

_Oh._

“Ohhh,” John said, nodding to himself. “Sorry, I’ve caught up now.”

“Good,” Sherlock said with obvious relief, falling back into his chair as if skirting so close to personal, dare it be said _emotional_ topics had thoroughly exhausted him. And then not even a second later, he frowned and flapped a hand impatiently.

“Well?!”

“Give us a minute,” John protested, something like a laugh and sigh combined escaping him in a gust. It wasn’t every day a man got proposed to in such a sideways manner. And as unofficial and unsanctioned and un-everything as it was and would always be, he knew that it was indeed a proposal in all the important parts. This would be as serious as any vows taken before a priest or judge. Sherlock had sacrificed all of himself to his work; mind and body, heart and soul. He was asking John to do the same. It was all or nothing; the work deserved it and Sherlock demanded it.

There would be no cheating; John would not date, would not so much as eye up a bird - or bloke, let’s be honest - while he ought to be on the lookout for a suspect. There would be no wedding bells, no new home near good schools, no pitter-patter of little feet to demand a share of his attention. He would not allow himself to be tempted away by a new job, or even consider filling idle hours with volunteer work.

Sherlock and the work ( _ **their** work it would be **theirs** , the work would belong to him and Sherlock both, and **he** would belong to **them**_ ) would be his all and everything. Safety and security would be things of the past, and the rewards would often be nothing more than a workout for his adrenal gland and the satisfaction of a job well done. They’d run themselves ragged, and then they’d grind themselves down to the bone, and then they’d burn even their bones to ash. They’d probably grow old before their time, and that only if they didn’t end suddenly in a splash of blood.

It would be amazing.

John discovered that he was grinning crookedly when he noticed Sherlock suddenly sit up expectantly. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“I do.”


End file.
